Saturday, April 17, 2010

I "status"like these.

But I've managed to keep most under the 250[is it?] character mark.

And no one can say that i didn't mean them;

Because I was just speaking my mind.

But talking about grandstanding,

there is nothing like that

going on.

Sometimes, they get so cryptic,

but i do not mean to confuse.

Just laugh if you

find the amusing.

They're not meant to be funny, though.

And I really do not have much time for study, meaning I have less time for sleep.

But a rhetorical question is worth the time. It is worth my time - is it worth yours?

No one can help posting about the internship.

And hope for the [much-awaited and much-prepared-for] potential Internship Syndrome.

But depression stays. flirting does not always help root it out.

And where depression is, there confusion starts to worsen.
Making one want to bang his head
against his keyboard.

And having done it is a long way from just wanting it.

Saturday, April 3, 2010

Now I'm in love with another drunk Brit.

Now I'm in love with another drunken Brit.

I do indulge in alcohol [once in a while] but I will never try singing, for fear of broken bottles [accidentally] flying and [accidentally] dissecting my carotids and jugulars [severely] or hitting a little bit left of the chest, or the [very well protected] groin. My singing voice wont [because nothing will] put a drunk bunch to that behavior, but I am just a bit cautious.

Enough of my life.


See, last year I was all over the wino, that beautiful creature that is Amy Winehouse; she lovingly haunted my dreams and dominated my morning commute to school. She still has my overflowing adoration, and I could never give her too much. There is no end to my generosity. she keeps on taking it, like a bottomless pit, like a gaping hole of no return, like a kitchen sink drain, because I assure her of it.

In return, plenty of epiphanies she caused me. Plentiful an epiphany.

But I haven't been seeing much of her. Online, her labels differ from each other only slightly: an abomination, a goblin, a walking disaster, one never to get close to, especially by small children and severely retarded adults. And I cannot clearly see why. Her hair seems a little out of place but the bees don't seem to mind it. Personally, I find it attractive. I want to sniff at it.

Public fora denounce her ways and continue to sling at her evil methods with stark sarcasm [some so obvious, the art of being sarcastic with a straight face is ruined.]. But she keeps on being herself. Because nothing can hurt her, she is resilient and tough; as tough as the brand of hairspray she's using [which I have now come to doubt as only being hairspray.] to keep her hive.

And I admit to being amused by the humor myself. I enjoy it and strain all my laughing muscles laughing with the rest of the world. Yours truly even partook in an online bet, for a chance at an iPod touch, to guess the date when she'll finally meet her maker, so to speak. It was all for fun, and may I remind all of you that there is now the ipad, and it has overtaken the itouch, and she's still alive and smokin' [I mean weed].as they all say, come hell and high water, matagal mamatay ang masamang damo [and I still mean weed].

Come the iMat or the iFloor panelling, the iRoof Shingles, she'd still be mi bella, mi amor, mon ├ętoile qui brille. I’d still want to share with her the iBed. iLove her.


But I haven’t told her yet she's been sharing the love with someone for about some days now. Not cheating but just indulging myself in someone else' good company, I say to myself. Nothing is wrong with that [right?]. and they will get along very well since they both have the amorous respect for the beer bottle ,though my former one-and-only muse also indulges herself in nicotine and the occasional line of coke sometimes. And they could both understand each other, with the same set of cockney slang.

Adele is it.
Adele tells me of my troubles. She’s there to share my solitude. She's my wonderful little [but really plump] shining star, lulling me to sleep in the cold springtime dark, with my cold blanket and my unfluffed pillow. I feel her stroking my unkempt hair, my clammy cheeks,
and grasping my hands. And I feel comfortable and loved again. And if ever
I cried [because I never do. EVER.] She’d find a way to cheer me up with a
melody sure to pluck at the right set of heartstrings.

Hay. How she makes me smile, even when I’ve already closed my eyes.

Her singing makes me feel the joy. Oh, joy --I write so happily again.

Last night she sang to me,
"You say it’s all in my head
and the things I think just don’t make sense
so where you been then? Don’t go all coy
Don’t turn it round on me like it’s my fault
See I can see that look in your eyes
The one that shoots me each and every time

You grace me with your cold shoulder
Whenever you look at me I wish I was her
You shower me with words made of knives
Whenever you look at me I wish I was her."

She speaks to me so lovingly; I cannot believe how well she reads me. She owns my heart and caresses it like it's her own. And her comforting stems from the most genuine of all intentions.

She relates,
"And I hear your words that I made up
you say my name like there could be an us
I best tidy up my head
I’m the only one in love
I’m the only one in love

Why do you steal my hand
Whenever I’m standing my own ground
You build me up then leave me dead."

She narrates to me as if we are one.
But, my dear, we are three. You are the second muse.
Like in Woody Allen's Vicky Cristina Barcelona, love is not for only two people to share. Sometimes a missing piece is sought to balance the scales, because sometimes the scale doesn’t have just two platforms.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Random Days

The use of random to describe a collection is endemic. I understand why. What I don’t understand is why it comes up too often. Is it still unexpected when everything's labeled as random? All of them are random, maybe miscellaneous, bits and pieces that do not constitute a single, concrete thought and people bask in the fun of posting it. Just posting it.

I haven’t slept much, because I’m trying to prove something, and the thing is finally proved, sadly. Anyway, there is nothing more fun than being random, like this post that I conjured out of nothing, while waiting to be vindicated of my sad point.

So much for dreaming [words of a little girl. HA!].

But summer's not over yet [hoping for a summer fling, maybe? HA! HA!].

I’m here, locked up. and right in front of me I see my future getting built up[I don’t know what to call it when all your family talks about how your future would be like, when they continue controlling your feet for you.]. Then it is a straight face for me to show them; I couldn’t screw up my face. Both sides would never know what would [or COULD] happen but as of now the chances of my independence surviving is nil, zilch.

I know how to get out of this rut but I don’t have the motivation to. [I used to, but had just lost it]. I could really get away [easily], with only myself to look out for and these youthful knees of mine. The world is a gaping hole of the young and the restless, I should try it, give it a dive; I should stretch my luck and let my fingers do my work for me.

I shouldn't give in to 'but’s.

[And this is how you do random, Albert-style.]

Overheard at the Airport

No, not overheard from all over the Airport. Just in front me, actually.

A little family of three was sitting right in front of me at the airport, all of us waiting at for the flight. And me being so close to them gives me the right to eavesdrop [while pretending to text and call my mom and biatch] on every conversation.

Like this one:

Brother: Hey, Ate, mom’s bought you a Longchamps bag…[holding a package]
Sister: Really? Where is it?
B: …from the Duty-Free. Here. [Hands her the package]
S: [surprised face, big eyes stay big the whole time] Wow. Really?
B: Really, it’s yours.
S: Really? [tries to open the bag]
B: NO-hahahaha! That’s mom’s. I asked her if I can prank you, she said yes; so I did.
S: [goes back to playing her Nintendo DS] ok…

Big woman arrives from the Duty-Free shops.

Momma: You saw the bag?

S: ...yeah...[turns to DS]
B: Ma, I pranked her! I totally did…
Ma: But it’s really yours.
S: REALLY? But I thought it’s yours…
Ma: No, we’ll BORROW each other. [opens her MacBook] Ok? Now be quiet.

Albert, sitting in front of them, tries to silent a snicker.

-the end-

This family is going to meet with the father. And we rode the plane; they sat a few seats behind me. We even were in the same line at immigration. And I saw them with the dad.

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

College is non-contact, HARDCORE s&m.

It’s been a long time, keyboard.

Lately I’ve been using the mouse to navigate the net. And the keyboard I use only for doing the cool window rolling thing [windows button between ctrl and alt + tab], but it works only on vista onwards, so don’t bother trying it on your XP or 98 or MAC. I also use the keyboard to copy-paste [but not journals, take note; I avoid plagiarism and infringement as much as I can], and type my name onto papers.

all of the above is caused by THE facebook [by no means do I exalt the site by placing 'the' in capital letters before it], my indirect source of stress, and flirting superhighway [flirting with danger, that is]. Flirting with danger, exactly. Because one can never be too private. And with facebook, investigating on someone [aka stalking] is easy as fcuk.

But forget it. My keyboard's aroused. I shall relieve it.

So lately I’ve been listening to musicals. ["musical-turned-movie", let me clear. how else should I get the OST?]

I download the OST, put it into my phone and listen to it. I delete it [the album] right away if I don’t like it; if it’s likeable I keep it and listen to it on the morning commute. Usually the album is on replay for a week, sometimes a month. And sometimes I listen to old Amy winehouse, or Daniel merriweather, or daft punk if I feel like it.

I got rent's both albums. I like it. With all the dialogue in between and the album being digital, compared to the live versions on YouTube, which were captured on Broadway. The jumpy-quality and the emotional notes kept me. I like Love Heals more than Seasons of Love.

The OST of Wicked the musical was mushy, cheesy. Not a particle of burnt on it. Lacked the spiked feel I was looking to hear. But it stays. Kristin Chenoweth has great legs.

Phantom of the opera is still in the torrent downloader. I can’t seem to continue with the downloading since my time's not enough. And schoolwork's just horribly eating away at every opportunity of life.

Hay. As my latest facebook status states:

College is non-contact, HARDCORE S&M.

S&M means sadomasochism. The girl usually dresses up in leather tights and wields a whip. And the slave's the boy. I bet you know completely what I am talking about.

Look for the status, LIKE it if you like it. Tell me why I should revise it. I don’t recant, so let's compromise. College is whipping me and I am liking the pain.


Friday, January 1, 2010

A Brand New Thing,

but actually, very much recurrent, sporadic thing.

for the past three days, i've buried myself under a rather light piece of literature, a compilation of jessica zafra's essays entitled Twisted 8 1/2. happy to have read it, more than to have bought it. anyway.

the joy of reading is something to gain experience in. enough to share, and tell people how much more enjoyable an afternoon sitting-down with a book than having it on-screen. and this is a somewhat relevant scene to point to, with the cinema going on and on and booming about, proliferating bad projects[films] and bad adaptations. see, the director is not the author at all times. neither do they really meet eye to eye. rarely do they understand each other and try to convert the play of words and the imagery onto cellulose and make do with it. maybe they'll win an award.

back to the book thing. now, i admire j. zafra's handiwork of writing, and she seems very smart. and if you think she doesnt, then you are wrong. i am protective of those who i read. for example, stephen king. i admit that i consider his novels more of the suspense genre than the supernatural/horror, because the horror is kind of predictable, and therefore sad. but he makes images with his words, which is wonderful. and i've said that the monsters are lame, so the good part really is where the hero/ine is about to uncover a secret/murder/memory fragment/random scary sh!tz. i defend him from my mother, she says he's lame. i say not entirely, its just that the movies ruin the imagery.

so, books. i've made my decision to make books a priority. so i'll have more time to read for leisure. it's about time too.